Alexithymia
by explos-ment
Summary: *I'm currently in the process of re-writing this story to hopefully make it better, so please be patient.* A personality construct characterized by the sub-clinical inability to identify and describe emotions in the self. Ian x Mickey. Rated M for foul language/sexual references.
1. Chapter 1

a/n: I feel that I was rushing this story before because I just wanted to finish it. So I'm going back through the chapters and changing a few things. They could be subtle or they could be big differences. All I ask is that you please be patient with me, I don't know how long it's going to take before I complete this story how I want it to be completed. Thanks.

* * *

Someone was at the door.

Someone was knocking, at the fucking front door, at 10:26 in the goddamn morning. And the only reason Mickey knew the time was because of the stupid red numbers of his alarm clock staring him in the face. He flung out his arm and knocked the clock off of his nightstand before rolling over and pulling the blanket over his head. If no one answered, the person would eventually go away, and if they didn't? Well, he had a few things that would _make _them go away.

Another round of quick knocks and Mickey flung the blanket from his body, ready to beat the hell out of whoever it was. But then he heard Mandy run from her room to the front door. Good. Let her deal with the asshole, he was planning on sleeping until at least noon. He pulled the blanket back over himself and turned onto his side so that he was facing away from his bedroom door. But fuck it all if he wasn't wide awake from adrenaline now, and maybe even a little bit hungry.

"Goddammit," he muttered, pushing the blanket aside and sitting up, placing his feet on the ground. He raked a hand through his hair and looked around his room, not used to seeing it in the light of the morning. It was dirty as hell. There were empty beer cans scattered on the floor complimented by the occasional liquor bottle. A huge pile of dirty clothes sat by his dresser and had been there for who knows how long – there were probably things living in it. He let out a sigh/groan and pushed to his feet. Maybe after breakfast, he'd actually do something about the mess. Maybe.

He pulled open his door and headed towards the kitchen, rubbing his right eye in the process. Maybe, because Mandy was already up, he could bitch at her to make breakfast. Yeah, that sounded good. He just hoped that they actually had the ingredients to make something for breakfast, and no, frozen fucking waffles did not count. He was about to yell for her when he heard voices coming from the living room.

He paused for a minute to crack his neck and roll his shoulders, because if it was that asshole Lip that woke him up… Let's just say that Mandy probably wouldn't want to make him breakfast for the next few months, or ever again for that matter.

Mickey rounded the corner into the living room, his hands flexing into fists in anticipation, and stopped dead in his tracks. Mandy was seated on the couch, and she was talking very animatedly to someone who wasn't Lip. No, definitely not Lip. The shock of red hair was unmistakable - the pale skin. His breath hitched in his throat, and he must have made some sort of sound because a pair of calm blue eyes flicked in his direction.

Ian fucking Gallagher.

He felt himself staring and cleared his throat, averting his eyes to Mandy in the process, but he didn't miss Ian's mouth twitching slightly upward. Was that a smile or a smirk? Either way, it was all too painfully familiar and Mickey's heart gave a small contraction in his chest.

"The fuck did he come from?" he croaked out, managing to sound somewhat indifferent.

"He didn't come here to see you, asshole." Mandy spat back, never taking her eyes off Ian.

"_I didn't come here for you"_

Ian closed his eyes and let out a low chuckle looking back to Mandy, and Mickey's eyes snapped to him, drinking in his features. Yeah, this was funny alright. After two years of thinking about what he could have done and what he should have done, this was real funny. After two years of constantly asking himself "what if?" this really brought a smirk to his face. After two goddamn years of "should have's" and self-hatred and loathing eating away at him and leaving him feeling entirely empty inside, this was just fucking hilarious.

So hilarious in fact, that Mickey kept the smirk on his face when he stepped forward and nearly cracked Ian's jaw with a quick right hook.


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: Sorry, it's still short. There wasn't too much to edit here because I wanted this chapter to end the same.

* * *

Mandy was screaming at him.

Things like "oh my god!" and "what the fuck asshole?!" but Mickey couldn't take his focus off of the red head. He had knocked him off of the couch and into the coffee table, scattering cups and magazines and whatever else was there, onto the already messy floor. Ian took a minute before he pushed himself to his feet, but Mickey was there waiting to meet him with another punch, this time knocking him onto the couch.

Mandy scrambled over Ian's body to get between him and Mickey – to try and shield him somehow, but Mickey grabbed her by the arm and flung her to the floor, out of the way. He then hauled Ian to his feet by the collar of his shirt, completely unfazed by the younger boy's height advantage, and punched him again, this time in the stomach. Ian doubled over with a grunt and Mickey was ready to give him an uppercut to the chin, but Mandy jumped on him from behind, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

"_Da-dad, hold on, hold on… Dad, dad hold on!"_

"_Mandy wasn't enough for you? You sick little piece of shit…"_

"_Get the fuck off of him"_

"Leave him the fuck alone!" Mandy yelled in his ear, using her slight weight to make Mickey stagger backwards, his eyes still locked on Ian's bent over form. It took him a few steps to regain his balance, but once he did, he kept walking backwards. Mandy didn't realize what he was doing until it was too late and he smashed her up against the wall, grinding her spine and shoulder blades uncomfortably. And when he walked forward and smashed her against the wall again, she had to let go, sliding like a doll to the floor.

Ian had sat down on the couch, hand cradling his stomach and a small stream of blood trailing from his mouth – a bitten cheek most likely. Bruises were already forming along his jaw. Mickey walked to stand in front of him and Ian just sat there; calmly staring at him like it was just another day, like everything was fucking fine. No trying to escape, no trying to defend himself, no nothing.

"Mickey, goddammit! Stop!" Mandy had tears streaming angrily down her cheeks, her mascara turning them into little black rivers.

Mickey roughly grabbed Ian's shoulder and threw him to the floor where a kick to the stomach made Ian reflexively curl in onto himself, and another kick to the Kidneys made him open back up. Mickey was reeling back for another kick when Mandy yanked his leg out from under him, and he fell, landing hard on his hip, his head nearly hitting the couch. He hissed through his teeth and kicked out, catching Mandy in the shoulder. She fell back against the recliner, her elbow jamming painfully against the metal frame.

Mickey used one of Ian's legs, pulling himself up while dragging Ian towards him at the same time. And when he was finally close enough, his fingers wrapped around Ian's throat. And those fucking eyes of his, those fucking pale blue eyes that used to carry a storm of emotions - they were calm as ever. Even when Mickey used his upper body for more leverage against his pale neck, they remained stoic as they gazed into his own.

"You're killing him! Mickey! Mickey stop!.. Please, PLEASE JUST STOP!"


	3. Chapter 3

a/n: there were quite a few changes to this chapter, more emotional elements, maybe a little character development/definition of intentions. So yeah, I'm much happier with this version of this chapter. I hope you are too.

* * *

There's a drop of water on his face, sitting right below his left eye. He wants to reach up and wipe it off, but his arm feels too heavy. He starts to drift back into unconsciousness when another drop lands on his nose and slides off to the side, then another onto his forehead goes back into his hair, and another lands on the corner of his lips.

He wants to open his eyes and see where they're coming from but that just seems too hard – everything is just _so, so_ _heavy._

He starts drifting back to sleep again when another drop catches on his eyebrow, and the shuddering breath that follows almost makes him jump. He has no idea where the strength comes from, sheer curiosity most likely – what was that about killing cats? But slowly, and painfully, he manages to open his eyes. At first everything is just a too bright scream of color, and he just feels like closing his eyes and going back to sleep. But another shuddering breath pulls him further into consciousness, and he wills himself to focus and blink in attempt to clear his vision.

The room is still too bright, and everything is a wash of fuzzy hues – whites and greens and blacks. But after a minute, the colors start to separate and come into focus. The black to the side of his head is a couch, the brown a ways to his right is a table, and there's no mistaking the blend of colors above him.

He knows that bright light skin, the mess of dark hair, and the faded pink of those lips. As his vision gets better, he can start to make out the FUCK tattooed across the knuckles covering eyes. Eyes that he knows are so indefinitely blue that he could drown in them. Eyes so clear that sometimes, they say all the things that his mouth won't. Eyes that are crying.

_Mickey fucking Milkovich._

As his head starts to clear, Ian becomes more and more aware of his surroundings. He feels Mickey's weight straddling his chest, his left hand lying limply against his neck. He starts to taste the blood in his mouth and feel the slow ache of his body begin to build in intensity. And over Mickey's occasional shuddering intake of breath, he also hears someone else crying in a different part of the room. It must be Mandy.

_Mandy. _

Ever since they first started talking she had always been there for him, even after he came out to her. In fact, that's what probably cemented their friendship together; yet, it seemed that all he's ever done is bring drama and pain to her life. Hell, he had continuously used her as an excuse to come to her house and see Mickey, and he didn't even have the decency to tell her.

What a novelty, using your best friend.

Such was the Gallagher way, apparently – using people, even if it wasn't intentional. He let out a low chuckle, but it came out as more of a bubbling choking sound. Mickey moved his hand to look down at him, startled by the noise, and Ian's mouth involuntarily curved up slightly at finally seeing his eyes.

They were striking.

Rimmed red and bloodshot, but that made them as blue as ever.

Ian's heart seized as another tear escaped and ran down to the tip of Mickey's nose before landing on Ian's cheek and sliding to his ear. Mickey's eyes seemed to follow it in a daze until another tear hit the bridge of Ian's nose and Mickey made eye contact with him. There were so many different things running behind Mickey's eyes that Ian couldn't even try to keep up.

And he hated himself because he wanted to.

He wanted to know what Mickey was thinking about so badly, and he fucking hated it. The two years away were supposed to be a lesson, they were supposed to make him stop caring, make him cold – indifferent. But as he lie there, his whole body screaming in pain, nothing mattered to him except for the beautiful boy above him crying his beautiful tears.

His right hand twitched with effort – he wanted to touch Mickey. He wanted to assure himself that this was really happening, that this wasn't just some demented fever dream. But the tear balancing on his nose slid down to Ian's left eye, and he blinked to try and clear it away.

That was all it took.

The eye contact was broken and Mickey was off of him in a flash of arms and legs, and he was out the front door with a fumbled slam that rattled the windows.

After such a loud sound, the house was eerily silent.

Ian closed his eyes and very slowly, took a big breath, filling his lungs as much as he could. His stomach shuddered in protest, but still he held it, feeling the air fill every part of his lungs until they were about to burst, and then he slowly exhaled. He opened his eyes, but without Mickey there to distract him, his vision started to blur as all of the pain in his body finally caught up with him.

"Ian?" Mandy whispered to him. She was somewhere to his left, but he couldn't focus his eyes enough through the hurt to look for her, everything was just a mass of colors again. He let out a low hum in response, and closed his eyes against the wave of pain-induced nausea that rolled over him. The air shifted next to him as she came to kneel next to his head.

"Oh Ian… "She gently skimmed the side of his face with her fingers, his skin overly hot to the touch.

"I'm so sorry, this never should have happened, I'm so s-sorry." Her voice was thick with tears and he felt her hand trembling against his face.

He turned to press his cheek more fully into her palm and she started crying harder, her thumb lightly stroking his cheek. She was so melancholy yet so divine because she was crying for him – with him. Because when he pressed a kiss to her soft skin he tasted salt.

Tears had escaped from behind his closed lids.


	4. Chapter 4

a/n: some slight changes to this chapter, nothing too big I think.

* * *

Mickey had no idea where he was going; he just had to get out.

What else do you do when you're overcome with so much emotion you've never felt before that you almost kill someone? What about when, even after almost beating them to death and having a nervous breakdown, they look at you like everything is completely fine, what the fuck do you do then? You sure don't stick around and have a goddamned tea party with them afterwards, that's for sure.

Lucky for him, he had left a pair of shoes on the porch that he jammed his feet into before taking off down the street. Yet, even after leaving in such a hurry, Mickey couldn't will his legs to take him very far – he only made it a block over and up to the cement pillars that hold the L train.

He kicked a can out of his way and gingerly sat down next to the giant columns, careful of his hip. The cool of the stone seeped through his t-shirt as he leaned back against it. He had no idea what was going on, or what to even do for that matter.

Ian had left. He had been gone for two years, two fucking years! No letters, no sign that the asshole was even still alive, no nothing. So by Mickey's logic, that meant that he should have never come back. Ian was gone and he was supposed to stay gone, that was just a fact.

Because everyone who left, everyone who had actually gotten out of the shit they lived in never came back. Ever. They usually just disappeared… like his mother. Poof. Vanished.

And the shit of it all, the worst part is that Mickey was finally starting to accept that Ian was never coming back, that he was either dead or found something better and was just living his life. But then, the asshole just shows up a few hours ago out of the blue to talk to Mandy – and her letting him! Both of them sitting on the couch just chatting it up, like nothing had changed, like it was just a regular day.

And then when Ian had looked at him with those eyes, those blank fucking eyes... Everything just came crashing into Mickey all at once. Every single emotion that he had ever felt in his entire life, and some that he hadn't, hit him like a ton of bricks. Because Ian's eyes weren't blank or empty, no, they were cold. They were the coldest eyes that he had ever seen in his life.

"Fuck!" he cursed as he smashed his fist into the pillar, feeling the cement crack his skin open.

He didn't know how to deal with this shit.

Ian's eyes weren't supposed to be like that, they were never supposed to be like that. Sure, he could take those eyes from anyone else in the world, _anyone_ – except for Ian. He didn't know what to do if Ian had eyes like that. Hell, he didn't even know how to stop Ian from leaving in the first place.

Mickey pulled his hand back and watched blood bead at the new cuts on his knuckles.

No, that was a lie.

He knew how to stop him; he knew all along, he just… couldn't.

* * *

Mickey slowly opened the front door, aware of every creak and groan that the wood was making. Normally, he didn't give two shits about making noise, but this time was different – he didn't know what he was going to find.

There weren't any lights on and all of the curtains were drawn, making the house impossibly dark for it only being around 5 p.m. – stupid winter daylight savings bullshit. He took one last look outside before closing the door, maybe no one was home – maybe they were at the hospital. Mickey tried to swallow the new lump in his throat as he peered into the living room, edging towards the light switch.

"Leave the fucking light off," Mandy seethed. And no, her voice jumping out at him from a completely quiet, dark room didn't startle him at all. It fucking didn't, alright? His eyes shifted to focus on the spot where her voice came from, and he waited for them to adjust to the darkness. She was sitting in the recliner, baseball bat across her lap. She had her elbow on what looked like a bag of frozen peas.

"You gonna try and hit me with that thing?"

"I fucking should, you deserve it you piece of shit… He's the only reason you're not laid out right now." She was looking at the couch. Mickey's eyes immediately flicked over, his pulse speeding up.

"He's been sleeping since you left," she mumbled, adjusting her arm on the bag. He started to take a step forward –"Don't fucking touch him," Mandy ground out, her hands twisting on the bat handle. He stepped back but continued to look at the couch, trying to make out Ian somewhere in the darkness.

"He didn't want to go to the hospital… I gave him some meds, you know, to take the edge off, but he… he couldn't swallow them, so I've been covering him in all the frozen stuff we have. He can barely move." She was shaking.

He waited three heart beats and took one last look at the couch before making his way to his room. He started pulling open all the drawers in his dresser, finally finding a prescription bottle at the bottom of his shirt drawer. He popped it open and shook out two of the pills "that's not gonna work," Mandy had appeared in his doorway. She still held the bat loosely in her left hand, her right arm cradled against her chest.

"Gimme a piece of paper," he said, looking around for his knife.

"Get your own goddamned piece of paper."

"Will you just… fuck, it's for him alright?" Mandy looked at him for a few seconds before going to her room. He found his knife before she returned. He took the paper from her, put it on his dresser, and proceeded to crush the pills on it with his knife, creating a fine powder.

"Here," he nodded towards the Oxy powder. "Put it in something and make him drink it."

"You're supposed to take that shit with food…"

"It'll work faster on an empty stomach, just trust me and fucking do it."

He could tell that Mandy was ready to start yelling at him again, but instead she stalked over, took the paper AND the bottle of Oxy and left for the kitchen. He let out the breath that he didn't know he was holding and he walked to his bed, sitting down on the edge and putting his face in his hands.

This was all just so fucked up.


	5. Chapter 5

a/n: a few changes, but not too many in this chapter.

* * *

Ian started awake, his eyes flying open and his muscles tensing. Where was he? Why was it so dark? He moved to turn his head and something slid away from him onto the floor – what… was that a box of frozen waffles? What the hell was going on?

He moved to sit up and was greeted with pain shooting through his entire torso, he gasped, eyes closing and his body sinking back. He took a slow, deep breath and let it out, opening his eyes to scan the room. Mandy was sleeping in the recliner across from him, a bat on the floor by her feet and her elbow on a bag of something. Ah, that's right; he was at Mandy's house. He tried to relax back into the couch, and that's when he noticed with slight amusement that his body was almost entirely covered with some sort of frozen food.

No wonder he was so cold.

He let out a breath and slowly shifted his body just enough to get the items off of him, trying to make as little noise as possible. The pizza was the hardest to get off, as well as the loudest thing to hit the floor. He flinched and looked at Mandy, but she was still sound asleep, her head lolling against the back of the chair. He started to reach his arm up to get the blanket off the back of the couch when the faucet turned on in the kitchen. He froze, heart starting to hammer in his chest, who was that? Mandy never did tell him what had happened with her family after he left, is that why she had the bat?

The water turned off and he pressed himself into the couch. Footsteps started to approach the living room and he slowed his breathing, closing his eyes as well. The steps stopped at the end of the couch by his feet for a few seconds, and then they moved around in front of him for a bit before retreating. He let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding and risked cracking his eyes open, looking over to Mandy who was still sleeping.

Shit.

He willed his body to hurt less at he slowly sat himself up, the pain in his abdomen making bile tear at his throat. The hardest part was going to be getting off the couch to the front door without being too noisy, but he currently had so much adrenaline coursing through his veins that anything seemed possible.

He placed his feet on the floor, getting ready to try and run, when he finally noticed it. All of the frozen food was gone. He stared at the floor quizzically, eyes searching for he didn't know what, when a throat clearing nearly scared him to death.

"Hey," Mickey mumbled, his voice sounding dry.

Ian looked up at him but Mickey was busy looking everywhere else. Ian's heart throbbed and his mouth quirked into a small, sad smile, before he felt his mask slip into place and he looked away, relaxing into the backrest of the couch. Amidst the silence, his eyes settled on the bat by Mandy's feet.

"She wanted to hit me when I got back… "

Ian hummed in response, his eyes closing. Now that the adrenaline was subsiding, he felt so very tired all over again. Just being around Mickey sucked all of the energy out of him. Having to hold everything back, hiding all of his emotions, frivolously trying to not care, it was just so completely exhausting.

Sure, he initially thought that leaving would fix everything. Sure, Fiona would be pissed, as well as Debbie and maybe even Lip – especially because he used his name. Carl would be indifferent and Liam wouldn't even realize that he was gone.

But this was something that he needed to do for himself.

He thought that the time away would heal him and that he'd just forget everything and go back to feeling normal for once.

And for a while, it worked. Because really, when you're getting shot at and worrying about everyone else in your unit, it's kind of hard to think about anything else except survival.

But there were also those moments when the fighting would stop, where everything was quiet, and all he could do was think. Those were the times when he would methodically clean his gun and remember the faces of his family. Yet, no matter how much he tried to prevent it, a flash of Mickey would always cross his mind. Like a skip in a CD or a ghost in the machine, he was always there, haunting darkest corners of his mind. And just when he thought he had purged his memories, everyone's faces faded from not being seen in so long, he got discharged, and there was nowhere else for him to go.

Mickey cleared his throat again and Ian's hand was nudged with something cool. He opened his eyes to see Mickey holding out a glass of water to him.

"There's uh… Oxy in it..." he trailed off, finally looking at Ian and flinching slightly. He must have really looked like shit then.

Ian sat up a bit and took the glass, watching Mickey's fingers and being careful to not touch them, because he didn't know what would happen if he did. He swirled the water inside a bit then proceeded to slowly drink it.

Every swallow was like a punch to the throat, but he knew that without the drugs he would feel much worse.

It felt like he had been drinking forever by the time he had drained the glass, and he slumped back into the cushions in exhaustion, the glass lazily gripped in his hand. He glanced over at Mickey who was chewing on his lip and absently staring at the empty glass.

"Thanks," it felt like there was broken glass in his throat, and that's probably what it sounded like too because Mickey's eyes flicked up to look at him. They held each other's gazes before a small flash of pain crossed Mickey's face and he coughed and looked away.

"Yeah…" Mickey reached for the glass and Ian handed it to him, then he was gone just as fast as he had arrived.

Ian wanted to laugh.

He wanted to laugh so hard that it hurt, so hard that it turned into crying and sobbing and ripping your own insides out.

Because that's exactly how he felt right now, and he hated it, he hated it so much.

* * *

He had to jiggle the handle twice before the toilet would flush which was an improvement over the toilet not flushing at all which happened sometimes. Making it to the bathroom felt like one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life, and now, he had to somehow get back to the living room.

Or home.

Home sounded amazing. Maybe he could call Fiona and ask her to come get him. He chanced a glance into the broken mirror over the sink and decided to take the thought back, there was no way Fiona could see him like this. He hesitantly reached up to touch the bruises blooming across his jaw but then thought better of it, bracing his hands against the sink instead. There was a knock at the bathroom door before it hesitantly swung open.

Mickey stood there, his bottom lip red and raw from chewing on it so much.

"I uh, I brought you a towel in case you wanted to shower? Get some of the, ah… blood… off…" he said, placing the towel on the sink and chewing his lip again. He stood there helplessly, seeming to favor his left side. Ian looked at him somberly, caught up in his own head, before nodding and placing his hand on the towel, "thanks."

Mickey nodded in return and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Ian should have never listened to himself or to Mandy.

He should have just stayed gone.


	6. Chapter 6

a/n: some changes.

* * *

It had been 36 minutes.

36 minutes since the water for the shower turned off and he heard the bathroom door open. 36 minutes that he had been sitting in the kitchen slowly picking a cereal box apart.

36 fucking minutes.

And no, he had not been checking the clock on the microwave obsessively for the past 36 minutes either. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands letting the weight of his head sink into them; this day had been so fucked.

He pushed back from the table and glanced one last time at the clock.

37 minutes.

He rolled his eyes and walked into the living room first looking to the couch. Nothing. He slowly made his way down the hall. Mandy's door was wide open so he peeked inside, nothing. Shit. Mickey headed for the front door passing his room along the way and stopped, maybe he was still in the bathroom? He pushed the door to his room open and his breath caught in his throat.

Olli olli oxen free.

Ian was sprawled out across his bed, all arms and legs, in nothing but his boxers.

And how fucked up was it that Mickey was almost instantly aroused? What kind of sick person nearly beats someone to death, only to want to fuck them not even 12 hours later?

Shit.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and was turning to leave before something caught his eye. He shifted back and forth on his feet for a few seconds before hesitantly making his way to the bed. He stopped when his knees hit the mattress and he inhaled sharply as his eyes scanned Ian's body.

There were various shades of purples and reds blooming along the smooth planes of his stomach, the left side of his jaw looked almost black, and there were finger bruises around his neck. And he was sure that if Ian rolled over, Mickey would see a red-violet swirl of bruises decorating his back.

* * *

He barely made it to the toilet in time. Bile burned his throat as he dry heaved over the bowl again and again. That's right, he hadn't eaten all day. He contemplated filling his belly with water just so he'd have something to throw up but no, he deserved this.

He deserved every bad fucking thing that had ever happened to him.

After the heaving finally subsided, he shakily turned on the tap and splashed water on his face and neck, as well as rinsed his mouth out. He turned off the faucet and rested his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, warily avoiding the cracks. He watched as his breath fanned out and condensed against the glass, the fissures distorting the pattern. He traced a finger along one of the splintered seams and felt it cut his finger, but he kept going, watching his blood collect in the imperfections.

He wanted a new one.

One without cracks or chips or any damage at all. One that wouldn't distort his image and show him what he felt like on the inside. He wanted a different one that was clean so he could start over. One that was clean and shiny and new and not fucked up like he was.

He pulled away from the glass and looked at the blood smeared all across his fingertip, a drop landing in the sink. And the mirror... The mirror looked eerily beautiful stained with red.

Fuck.

* * *

Mickey slowly shuffled back into his room, not wanting to look at Ian again, but his feet automatically took him to his bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, careful to not disturb him, and proceeded to stare at the floor. His threadbare carpet and the trash scattered on it had never been more interesting.

What was he supposed to do now?

Everything had been a simple routine before; drink, eat, sleep, sell, collect, work when he got called, and whatever the fuck else he felt like doing. Now that Ian was back, it was like everything had been turned upside down. It was amazing that one person could throw a wrench into his existing lifestyle, and that he'd just let him. Ian sighed and shifted a bit in his sleep and Mickey's eyes were drawn to him, taking in the bruises all over again. His stomach knotted painfully.

He wanted to leave.

He wanted to run. Just go. He wanted to be the one this time - to just disappear and never have to deal with anything ever again. He wouldn't have to deal with all of these feelings and emotions and everything else that was driving him insane. He could eventually just forget everything and just be.

But, looking at Ian now, seeing him again after all this time, he knew that couldn't leave. Now that he was back, Mickey would never be able to just vanish because it would kill him. It would rip him inside-out all over again and he knew that he wouldn't survive.

Tentatively he stretched out his arm and let his fingers ghost over the edge of the bruise on Ian's face, barely touching his skin.

"You're a fucking shit-head …" Mandy murmured from the doorway. His shoulders tensed and his hand stopped, hovering there, feather light touches skimming Ian's cheek.

He didn't say anything to her; just cast a sideways glance as he moved his hand back to his side. She had both of her arms folded across her chest and she was leaning against the doorjamb, a look of annoyance on her face. He observed her for a few seconds, but when she didn't say anything else he turned his attention back to Ian, noticing that goose bumps had broken out along his pale body. Mandy grunted softly as she pushed herself away from the door frame but Mickey paid her no attention.

She had turned and padded down the hallway to her room, her door clicking quietly shut.

He let out a sigh and rolled his shoulders trying to relieve some tension. He slowly reached towards the bottom of the bed and grabbed the edge of the blanket, pulling it over Ian's body. Ian shifted slightly before mumbling something and turning his face away. Mickey just stared at him, unsure of himself.

Yeah, he was a fucking shit-head alright.


	7. Chapter 7

a/n: bigger changes/character development in this one...

* * *

His right arm and leg were warmer than the rest of his body and he didn't want to get up - not yet.

That sleep had been the first one in a long while where he didn't dream, and it had been so refreshing. His mind had remained blank the whole time, no snippets of memories, no flashes of nightmares, no anything. Just the wonderful tranquility of nothing, and it made him feel like his mind was fresh and new.

He sighed and tried to move closer to the warmth, but he was met with a sharp pain up his spine. He grimaced and took a few deep breaths through his nose, slowly opening his eyes in the process.

He was greeted by a swastika poster on the ceiling.

"_Wife made me take all my Nazi shit down. She hates Nazis. Apparently the Russians kicked some serious kraut ass in World War II so… She can drink me under the fuckin' table man, it's weird."_

The heat next to him shifted and he glanced over to discover Mickey lying there, fully clothed, and curled in on himself against the cold.

Ian studied his sleeping form, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the disheveled hair. His right hand was next to his face, his fingers bloody and the knuckles scabbed over – Ian's bruises throbbed looking at them. Who was he kidding; his whole heart throbbed just looking at Mickey. Especially when he noticed the thin line of drool trailing from the corner of his chewed-raw lips...

It was time to leave.

He slowly slid off the other side of the bed, being careful of his injuries as well as the mess on the floor. He was hit with the crispness of the air and it instantly gave him chills. As quickly as his body would allow, he pulled on his jeans and grabbed his shirt from the top of the dresser. The front was covered with streaks blood, so he turned it inside-out before putting it on.

His socks were a lost cause, and he probably wouldn't be able to bend to put them on anyways.

He chanced one last glance at Mickey before slipping out the door and down the hall into the living room. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch, and with great effort he managed to put it on. Then he slipped his feet into his shoes and he was gone.

* * *

Ian didn't realize what time it was until he crept in through the back door. The clock on the coffee maker was glaring at him that it was 4:27. Some habits die-hard.

He shrugged off his jacket and grabbed a glass from the cabinet, the Nesquik powder, and the jug of milk from the fridge - what was left of the oxy in his system was eating at his stomach. He sat himself at the kitchen table and made himself a glass of chocolate milk with just enough powder to tint the color of the milk; it was Mickey who liked almost 5 scoops in his milk…

Dammit.

He stared hard at his glass, watching the current he created slow to a stop before he started chugging. He didn't care that his throat still felt like it was on fire, or that Mickey had an extra sweet tooth. He didn't care that milk was spilling from the corners of his mouth or that he knew red gumballs were Mickey's favorite. He didn't care that the collar of his shirt was getting stained or that he couldn't look at a Snickers bar without thinking about Mickey.

He didn't care that he did care and **that** was the whole fucking problem.

He set the glass down on the table and wiped at his lips with the back of his hand before resting his bruised cheek against the jug of milk, letting the cool seep into his skin.

He wasn't _supposed _to care anymore...

_"You love me... and you're gay. _

_Just admit it, just this once… fucking admit it!"_

He had died a little that day.

So, fearing for the rest of his heart, Ian took all of his feelings and emotions and tucked them away deep inside of himself. Somewhere so deep and dark that they would be perfectly preserved and he would keep them there until they were needed... Or until they were eventually forgotten about, and he would heal, and he would be alright.

But then the wedding.

And the stupid idiotic last glimmer of hope that he had let slip through the cracks... it's what ended up being his undoing. That hope and longing was snuffed out, and it was the extra push needed to send him barreling over the edge. One tiny phrase and he was ripped open, exposing everything that he had stored away, and it showed that instead of healing, it had festered.

Everything that he had been holding onto had spoiled; it had become rotten and decayed. Being hidden away in the dark, it had developed into hatred and spite and disgust. It was tainted – ugly.

_"You try sitting on your ass while the person you love… No, I'm sorry, I mean the guy you've been __**fucking**__, gets married to some random Commie skank."_

In the morning, save for the headache from his hangover, he didn't feel anything. He had let everything bleed out, the vodka had flushed it all away, and now he was left with nothing. He was hollow. Empty.

And that morning on the bus, as far as he was concerned, that was just what he wanted.

His head started to dip to the side and he sat up, fearing accidentally smashing his face against the table. How was it that he had slept so well, but now he felt so completely fatigued all over again?

He groaned as he stood up, returning the milk to the fridge and putting the Nesquik back in the cabinet. He shuffled out to the living room and plopped down on the couch, kicking his shoes off. He stretched himself out as far as the couch would allow and pulled the blanket off the back to cover himself.

If only he could sleep forever, maybe then he wouldn't feel so exhausted.

* * *

Someone was shaking his shoulder, "Ian… Ian, wake up."

Debbie.

He rolled over to face her and she winced. Oh… right.

"I brought you some Tylenol because I thought you'd have a hangover or something, but I'll see if I can find something stronger. You should get upstairs before Fiona sees you, she was really worried yesterday. I'll bring you an ice pack and tell her you don't feel good." She got up from the coffee table and went to look in the kitchen cabinets for more medicine.

When did she grow up so fast?

He sat up slowly, allowing his muscles to acclimate to the movement before putting the blanket back where it was and heading upstairs. He tiptoed past Fiona's door to the safety of his room and swiftly got into his bed, pulling the covers over to hide himself from the still sleeping Liam and anyone else who might wander in.

His hand knocked against something hard and he reached to find his cellphone. He flipped it open and found two messages waiting for him. The first was from Mandy;

"Hey. I'll be coming over later… Sorry for… everything." She sounded just as tired as he still felt.

The second was from an unknown number;

"…"

The silence said it all.


End file.
